Reaching Out
by celinae
Summary: Whenever she spots him in the street, her throat closes, her eyes fail her. Like now. Kakasaku


**Disclaimer: **All creative rights to the Naruto characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto; I am not getting any profit from this story. I don't own the lyrics of Sleep, which I quoted from in this oneshot.

**A/N**: I ended up writing this instead of my homework. Talk about stupid. It also ended up being ridiculously sappy… XD; But yet, flargh, somehow I really like it…

* * *

_And so I'm reaching out for the one  
And so I've learned the meaning of the sun  
And all this like a message comes to shift my point of view  
And watching through my own light  
As it tints the shade of you_

-Azure Ray, Sleep

* * *

She can't speak to him. Whenever she spots him in the street, her throat closes, her eyes fail her. Like now.

Sakura wishes she could say something, anything witty and unaffected, but she knows that if she ventures beyond the formalities, she'd end up revealing too much. She's standing on the cliff edge, and the slightest wavering in her balance could send her into the air.

She can't meet his gaze. If she does, she's afraid that her face will crumble, and the feelings underneath will come crawling out, like moths from the skeleton of a sweater. She stares at the reinforced edge of his mask and the tip of his chin, his shadowed throat.

Back before _everything_, she used to think he was a joke for not being able to dodge Naruto's eraser. But now, she can't look him in the eye, because he has the power to crush her with a casual word. There's a subtle irony to the situation, that this person who is so familiar to her is in some ways more dangerous than an enemy ninja trying to kill her.

All she can muster is a raspy "hi," one that sounds embarrassingly squeaky and choked off. She winces a little, but it's enough, and with an unsteady wave she pushes herself past him. He lifts his hand, pauses, and she keeps her gaze focused on the red curtain of the restaurant to her left as she passes him, vainly trying to keep her face nonchalant. The momentum of her effort carries her down the street before she can muster herself to stop to look back after him, but she can't spy his familiar silvery hair at that distance, for all her uncertain squinting.

It's better this way, she tells herself.

She can't sleep. Sakura is haunted by thoughts (of him), and every time peace finally settles over her, a brief image is enough to agitate her into fitful wakefulness. The flex of muscles in his thigh as he runs through the forest, the way his hair shimmers a dark rose in the dying sunset, the feel of his large, capable hand holding her elbow.

She can't think of him; each thought makes her heart start. But she can't stop thinking about him, either. She's growing tired of it, of him, of not being able to look or speak or see him. She wants to be _calm_!

One morning, weeks since she last greeted him, she wakes up at five in the morning, hours before she has to report to the hospital. She had dreamt of him dying in her arms.

She puts on an old yukata over her pajamas and goes outside in the chilly fall morning, in the direction of the memorial stone. That place, more than any other, is the heart of Konoha to Sakura. It is where her first team started and ended, with a trio of naïve thirteen-year-olds, and two estranged adults, a name etched into stone. Her pink and yellow yukata drags a little on the dewy grass, and her slippered feet are soundless on the damp earth.

Sakura pauses at the edge of the clearing to adjust her sash, tying it more tightly around her waist, and when she looks up there is a familiar figure leaning against the memorial stone. She freezes in place before realizing that he is asleep, but even then she feels like any misplaced step will tip her over. And yet she comes closer to him, as quietly as she can. He doesn't open his eyes until she is a foot away.

She can't cry, but feels the tears gathering in her eyes.

"It feels like forever," Kakashi says, and Sakura jerks her head in a nod. She presses a hand to her right eye, maybe trying to hide in plain sight.

She can't move from this spot. He's looking at her, and even if she wanted to she wouldn't shift. She's aware of every inch of her body and every wrinkle of her faded, sleep-rumpled clothes. His Sharingan is uncovered, and she can clearly see the bags and the faint tracery of blood vessels on the sclera of his eyes. Even the slouch of his body seems more fatigued then usual.

"It seems you haven't been sleeping well lately," she murmurs, and fists her hands in her yukata, her palms sweating against the worn fabric.

"Neither have you," he says, laughing bitterly. "Yes, it's felt so off lately, I can't make any sense of it…" he murmurs, tilting his head up to view the lightening sky.

"Ever since—then, I've barely spoken to you," she says softly, focusing on the grass by the stone.

"I missed our training sessions," Kakashi replies. Sakura swallows, glancing at him to find him staring at her.

"I didn't want to--I've missed you," the words pour out, in his voice, and she can't believe him.

"You are—"

She can't stay still any longer. She steps closer, reaches out. The mask is slick under her skin, and the bristles of his five-o-clock shadow scratch her fingers where they poke through the black material. He puts his hand on top of hers, holding it to him, his eyes dark.

"I—I love you," she whispers, her voice wavering, choking, tearing up. "I love you and your stupid—jokes, and how you know how to make a girl feel special, how you let me beat you up when I'm feeling bad, how you wait for me—and it hurt so _much_—"

"I love you, too," he whispers, as though unable to believe it himself.

And he is holding her close, kissing her cheeks and jaw and lips. His hands are cradling her face, and she is clutching his vest, an arm snaking up to pull down his mask. She laughs breathlessly into his shoulder, tears trickling down her face.

The sunlight illuminates his soft smile.

* * *


End file.
